(no subject)
Stepping closer to the sidewalk, where strange, boxy cars sputter and zoom along the street, forcing all walkers to step lively lest they be run down, she strains to listen-
Midgar towers and extends, a behemoth of steel and iron, a full-metal labyrinth of colossal frame and impossible design. In this tangle of rust and rivets, it works to choke out that voice only she can hear...
Search-beacons sway on heavy iron bases, sending beams skyward, stabbing through clouds of smog into a starless sky. Rising above the city at its center, a single tower is licked by the spotlights climbing its silver face, scaled by glowing Mako vents, passing over the red diamond emblazoned with the Shinra, Inc. logo. Gathered 'round it at the city's edge, in a cromlech of steel and smoke, eight giant furnaces vent writhing, ghastly slow-fire into the air; first green-toned, as it floats higher it becomes tenuous, thinning into fingers of steam before curling out of existence. These reactors, marked with numbers from 01 to 08 across their curved sides, brew from every angle. From various sidelong vents, they belch steam at intervals. At their tops, they open wide like the mouth of a volcano, where the sickly green glow of power rises from within.
-to what is only a whisper, so faint she almost believes it to be her imagination, maybe even false hope-
In the gigantic, mindless sprawl of Midgar, pipes and wires and rusted gridwork run up and down walls and walkways, dividing streets and crossing lanes seemingly at random. Here houses and shops are stacked one on top of the other, built thoughtlessly into the gargantuan façade of the city, to accommodate the numerous life within. Here, to every wall a poster is affixed; some so faded they are illegible, others nailed over the ones before them. The noise. The rust. The neon. The life. The light. The darkness...the Reactors rule over all, humming lowly, making this parody of life possible, all the while draining it away.
-but she knows that isn't the case. Somewhere, tonight, her prayer has been heard-
The Crystal rotates at the axis of worlds, its facets passing through darkness, and back into light. And, always, a Hero arises to lead the way. Here is the man who will turn the final page:
He sits alone in the darkness at the back of the freight compartment he'd stowed aboard. As the train passes through lit tunnels at dangerous speeds, wisps of light fall through the slats in the top of the car before shooting up his chest and rushing over his face, briefly sketching his features in the dark with instantaneous flashes of light; the roll of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the large and heedless spikes jutting from his skull.
-and answered. It is not the first. It will not be the last.